21.6.12

A Departure

He
jumped the fence on Flushing near North Elliot Street, or Portland, he didn’t
remember. It doesn’t matter. Of course it doesn’t, but there was a truth. It
was one of those and his recollection should not rob a depiction of the events
of the events themselves. They jumped the fence, him first than his friend,
bikes lock up on Navy St two blocks away, a surprising uncertain walk along
poorly paved grounds he always hated biking. Flashlights and beers. The barbed
wire covering the fence had already been cut, which in a way was why they were
there in the first place, they saw it in the daylight three or more weeks ago
walking to Clinton Hill after he had his tire replaced in Dumbo. What a good
day. And the wire was already cut and my god did it look inviting. The perfect
youthful getaway in a sense. Like out of Tom Sawyer. They didn’t bring spray
cans though, he thought it should be noted. They could have brought spray cans.
It was likely what the infamous cutter had done when he hopped the fence, so to
speak paving their way. Graffiti shamefully was probably more of a odd fantasy
to him so look he didn’t actually do it. Hadn’t thought to. Shamefully, but he
did hop the fence! And he did drink some beers in there, probably not overcome
by wonder at the decaying structure but goddamn did he try. No one could say
otherwise anyway, right? People will say he was overcome by wonder, that’s what
his friend will tell people. As they used to say, not terror, but awe. Not that
that kind of distinction means anything anymore. An echo of an echo. It was
triumphant. It was powerful at least and triumphant. And he had taken some
photographs, second long exposures. And then they had been caught by the police
and then he sat here. And he didn’t have to be here, he hadn’t had to jump the
fence, it should be noted. This was just some weird hypothetical like the rest.
What makes this more real?